The digital echo of the error still resonated, a faint hum in the quiet theater of my mind. "'Yes, my profile,'" I affirmed, a subtle sharpness now lacing my internal tone. Then, as if summoned by my will, the air before me stirred, a soft luminescence blooming into a stable, shimmering screen that displayed the stark reality of my current state.
Processing request... Ding! Displaying profile now.
Host Profile
Simulation Points: 40
Name: Lazarus
Marine's Rank: Chore Boy
Attribute: Endurance (20), Strength (30), Agility (7), Spirit (12)
Ability: no
Battle Skill: Sniper (Novice)
Forty simulation points. Forty embers glowing in the hearth of my consciousness, each a potential catalyst for profound change. My gaze lingered on the stark numbers, the silent testament to my current limitations and nascent strengths. Endurance, a respectable 20. Strength, a promising 30. Agility, a lamentable 7. Spirit, a steady 12. And then, a curious anomaly, a flicker of the unexpected: Sniper (Novice). A genuine surprise, an unforeseen avenue that sparked a sudden, keen interest.
"Well now," I mused, a mental finger tracing the ethereal outline of the 'Sniper' skill. "Where did you spring from?" It wasn't a path I'd consciously chosen, yet here it was, a seed of potential planted in the digital soil of my being.
Thirty points. Three more Bronze Simulations. A significant chunk of my meager reserves. The pragmatic voice within whispered a caution. Patience, it urged. Three days hence, the familiar haven of base. More points will accrue. The coveted Silver Simulation awaits.
But the very notion of delay, of allowing this nascent potential to lie fallow, felt like a profound disservice to some intrinsic drive. It was akin to stifling a gasp when submerged, a frustrating inertia when every fiber of my being pulsed with the need for advancement.
The ghost of those fifty hard-won points from the pirate scenario flickered in my memory, a tantalizing glimpse of the Silver upgrade just beyond my grasp. Fifty points for Silver… a significant leap.
Yet, forty was my current reality, the consequence of that initial, crucial investment in the Bronze tier. Ten more points. Another perilous bounty. Another dance with danger in the unpredictable currents of the Grand Line. And with the crew still bearing the wounds of our last encounter, the ship itself a testament to the brutal realities we faced… days, perhaps even a week, might pass before another such opportunity arose.
A silent sigh, a mental exhalation of frustration. Impatience, that ever-present shadow, began to lengthen within the confines of my thoughts, its whispers insidious. Why tarry? Progress, however incremental, is still progress.
Waiting felt like a vulnerability, a luxury I could ill afford in this unforgiving world. Strength, speed, capability – these were the currencies of survival, and my need for them was immediate. The tangible feedback of the Bronze Simulations, the visceral sensation of my being subtly recalibrating, adapting… it was a potent allure.
"Thirty points it shall be," I resolved, the mental affirmation resonating with a newfound determination. Three more Bronze Simulations. Ten points held in reserve – a meager buffer, but a buffer nonetheless. The immediate gains, the potent memory of that initial surge of power, the way my muscles had burned and then settled into a new plateau of strength… that was a lesson etched into my very core.
This time, I vowed silently, it will not be a blind plunge. I would dissect the experience, analyze the nuances, the precise ways in which my body responded to the simulated stresses. Strategy would be my guide this time. Perhaps focus on the lamentable state of my agility, those sluggish reflexes begging for improvement. Or… a flicker of intrigue… perhaps a single foray into the uncharted territory of that nascent Sniper skill, just to gauge its potential.
"No," I corrected myself, a renewed sense of focus sharpening my thoughts. "Fundamentals first." The brutal efficiency of the pirate attack, their lightning-fast movements, served as a stark reminder of the essential need for physical prowess. Agility. That was the immediate priority.
The Silver Simulation… it remained a beacon, a longer-term aspiration to be pursued upon our return to the relative safety of base, when new missions and new opportunities presented themselves. But for this moment, here and now, the bronze glowed with the promise of immediate, tangible evolution. An opportunity I would not let slip through my grasp.
Ten points remained. A quiet reminder of the next threshold, but my immediate gaze was fixed on the bronze luminescence, the untapped potential waiting to be unleashed.
My thoughts then drifted back, unbidden, to the chilling text summary that had flashed across the screen in the final, catastrophic moments of the previous simulation. Recalling those stark indicators was paramount, a crucial exercise in dissecting failure, in understanding the chain of events that had culminated in such a devastating outcome.
The memory of the hard-won promotion, the grueling trials under Zephyr's tutelage… it all felt like a cruel jest in the face of that brutal finality. To think it had ended there, so abruptly, so senselessly. Captain Darius, surviving the initial onslaught only to be swallowed by the ensuing chaos. And myself… obliterated. All of us.
The stark details of Zephyr's demise, the utter annihilation of his division and the elite training camp… it was a visceral blow. To lose so many promising marines, the very instructors who embodied the pinnacle of combat prowess, in such a brutal and decisive manner… it underscored the terrifying power that lurked in the shadows of this world, the unforgiving nature of the Grand Line. The chilling realization that even the most rigorous elite training could prove utterly insufficient was a stark and unsettling truth.
Reflecting on my simulated training under Zephyr, a wave of profound regret washed over me. There were undeniable areas where my dedication had fallen short. The fundamental Rokushiki techniques had been drilled ad nauseam, yet the damning summary clearly stated my continued status as the weakest among the trainees. A critical deficiency.
If only I had possessed this knowledge then, I mused, the sharp sting of hindsight a familiar ache. Knowing what I now knew, granted a second chance within those demanding training years, my focus would have been absolute, a laser-like intensity directed at identifying and eradicating those critical weaknesses.
Physical conditioning and the rote execution of basic Rokushiki were foundational, undoubtedly, but the stark pronouncement of others wielding those same techniques with "terrifying skill" illuminated a crucial truth: I had failed to grasp the deeper nuances, the strategic application that elevated mere technique to true mastery.
I should have pushed myself harder, I mentally chastised, the words echoing in the silent chambers of my mind. Relentlessly. Sought out Zephyr's guidance with greater fervor, perhaps even humbled myself to observe and learn from the more adept trainees, dissecting their movements, their subtle shifts in stance, the almost imperceptible cues that telegraphed their devastating techniques.
And then, the pointed emphasis of the prompt: shooting. A critical oversight, a glaring omission in my simulated development. In a world teeming with monstrous Devil Fruit users and masters of close-quarters combat who could move with impossible speed, exceptional marksmanship could have been the crucial equalizer, a means to engage threats from a safer distance, to potentially neutralize them before they could unleash their overwhelming power.
Why did I neglect this vital skill? The question resonated with a bitter taste of regret. I should have dedicated countless hours to honing my accuracy, my speed, my adaptability across a myriad of shooting scenarios under Zephyr's tutelage. Requested specialized drills focused on engaging rapidly moving targets, practicing under duress, mastering the art of compensating for the unpredictable variables of wind and distance.
Ultimately, the catastrophic outcome of the simulation served as a brutal, undeniable truth: well-rounded strength and adaptability were not mere aspirations, but the very tenets of survival in this unforgiving world. While proficiency in close-quarters combat was undoubtedly essential, the ability to engage effectively at range, to wield a firearm with lethal precision, could have been the razor-thin margin between existence and oblivion, especially against the unpredictable and terrifyingly powerful adversaries that roamed the Grand Line.
The tragedy was a stark and chilling reminder that even the most rigorous elite training offered no sanctuary. Continuous self-improvement, a relentless pursuit of one's limitations, and a profound understanding of the multifaceted threats that lurked in every shadow were not mere suggestions – they were the fundamental imperatives of survival. And I had, tragically, failed to fully internalize their weight.